Dewey Lambdin - The French Admiral

"Oh, damme," Alan whispered.

"I shall be on deck directly, and I trust I shall see two midshipmen doing something more profitable with their time than second-guessing their betters!"

"Aye, aye, sir," David called back as they made their escape to the bows, far away from that disembodied voice before Treghues made good on his threat.

"Now will you look at that!" Alan exclaimed. "Mister Avery, will you join me on the foredeck? Look at the state of that carronade slide. Not enough grease to let it run freely, I swear!"

"Thank you," David whispered. "I was about to remark on the forebraces, and there's nothing wrong with them."

"Surnmat amiss, sirs?" Tulley, the new gunner's mate, asked them as he ascended to the bow-chase guns to join them. He was a recent replacement for poor Mister Robinson, who had been shot in the knee and discharged a cripple from his position a bare three weeks before, in their fight with the Continental Navy brig-of-war Liberty . Tulley was too new in his berth and warrant to feel safe even with midshipmen, especially in a ship run by a seeming lunatic, and was as nervous as a cat to be found lacking for the slightest excuse.

That was the main reason he did not treat the midshipmen with the usual patient disdain that was the customary usage of human existence, and the Fleet. He was also big, bluff, and hearty, a plug of oak with flaming ginger hair and a permanently sun-baked complexion. He had, so far, appeared no brighter than he had a right to be.

"Might have a word with the quarter-gunner about this slide," Alan said. "The captain said he would be on deck directly."

"Aye, thankee, Mister Lewrie," Tulley quailed. "Did he, by God? Mister Sitwell? Call yerself a quarter-gunner an' roon one a my guns fer the lack o' some tallow?"

"Me, Mister Tulley?" the quarter-gunner barked, deeply offended.

As Alan and David waited for their own meal to begin, drab as it promised to be, they could delight in hearing Tulley berate the offending Sitwell, hear Sitwell roar for Hogan the carronade gun captain and pass on the grief. By the time Treghues appeared on deck, he was drawn to the ado and paid no attention to them as they betook themselves below out of danger.

"That is one thing I absolutely love about the Navy sometimes, David," Alan said as they sat down to their dinner. "You can stir up such a shitten storm for other people over the slightest trifles."

It was later, during loading of stores scared up by Cheatham from the warehouses, that the wind shifted into the east and began to blow dead foul for any of Admiral Graves's ships to work their way down harbor and cross the bar to seaward.

They spent three more days swinging at their anchors, gazing at the shore with fond regard, and wondering what was to occur before the wind at last veered favorable and the signal to weigh broke out on the flagship, Admiral Graves's ninety-gun second-rate, London .

Treghues had gleaned a little information from other captains, and had passed it on down the chain of command, and by the time it had reached the midshipmen's mess, it was frankly disturbing.

The frigate Richmond had come in from the Chesapeake on the 29th with the information that so far no French ships were anywhere near the bay.

De Barras in Newport had sailed—no one knew where, but it did not take an educated guess to discern the final destination. De Barras had transports with him, and the French had nearly five thousand troops around Newport, with heavy siege artillery. Should he combine with de Grasse, that would make up to a possible 22 French ships to face theirs.

And they would only be nineteen ships of worth. The North American Squadron could contribute no more than five, since the Robust was in the careenage undergoing repair, and the Prudent was lacking spars and masts enough to sail.

Admiral Graves brought out London, Bedford, Royal Oak, America , and Europe —the Europe so in need of careenage and repair herself that the fifty-gun fourth-rate Adamant also joined the fleet to take Europe's place if she had to drop out. That would leave a dangerously weak gap in the line if Adamant faced a line-of-battle ship, for she was more suited to commanding a light cruising flotilla than fighting a major battle in the line. She was an oversized cruiser, not meant for heavy punishment.

"Now what's he signaling," Treghues snapped, pacing the deck in a fit of nervous energy. "Mister Carey?"

"Um…" Carey fumbled with his slim signals book and a telescope nearly as tall as he was. "Can't quite make it out, sir. The flags are blowing away from us."

"That is what the repeating frigate is for, young sir," Treghues reminded him sternly. "Now what is the signal?"

"'Engage the enemy more closely,' sir?"

"Does that make sense even to you?" Treghues replied. "Where is the enemy in the first place?"

"Uh, no, sir." Carey blushed, turning red with embarrassment.

"Those two flags together, in Admiral Rodney's signals book, are 'Engage the enemy more closely,'" Railsford prompted from the sidelines, "but in Admiral Graves's system, they mean…"

Carey tumbled to his mistake and almost dropped the telescope in his haste to fetch out the proper sheet of signals. "'Make easy sail,' sir," he said, with an audible gasp of relief.

"Now this one," Treghues said, as a new hoist went up their flagship's yards. "You, Lewrie."

"'For Solebay ,' sir, 'Captain Everitt.'" Alan was reading even before the frigate named in the signal hoisted a reply. Immediately a second hoist was made on the London . "'Proceed ahead to leeward,' sir."

"Is that what you think, Mister Forrester?" Treghues asked.

"Um… I believe that is correct, sir," Forrester replied, most unsure of himself, but not wishing to grant Lewrie any competence.

"Hah… hmm," Treghues said, slapping his hands into the small of his back and stalking off toward the starboard gangways.

"Wish to God we were using our own signal book and not Admiral Graves's version," Railsford muttered, taking off his hat to smooth back his hair. "We have the more ships, so it would only be fair. This is confusing in the extreme."

"Only natural," Alan whispered to Avery, "the Navy's spent the last two years confusing the devil out of me!"

"There's another hoist!" Treghues cried, coming back aft in a rush. "Last miscreant to read it gets to kiss the gunner's daughter."

"To Barfleur ,' sir," Alan said quickly as soon as he saw the single flag. "'Send boats.'"

All of them stumbled out almost at once in their haste to avoid a caning. A second flag had appeared.

A third, explanatory hoist went up London's yards. Alan read it as number 48, which would be… "I am sinking"? Couldn't be, he thought. But maybe it could be. No, maybe it's 98. That's… "Take on excess supplies."

"'Take on excess supplies,' sir!" Alan was beaming, glad to be the first to answer, but barely ahead of Avery, who gave the same answer barely ahead of Carey, who did the same barely before Forrester began to say something else and ended up not saying anything at all, merely flapping his lips like a boar at a slop trough.

Treghues had promised a caning, and he could not play favorites in public. Forrester got the gentle attention of the bosun's strong arm for a half-dozen with a stiffened rope "starter," after which Treghues decided that signals lessons were over for the day. Forrester looked absolutely betrayed and aggrieved, which pleased them all to no end, and he grumbled that he would get his own back.

For all the urgency with which they had finally departed New York, the cruise down the coast of America was remarkably leisureable. The line of major warships made no more than four or five knots during the day, taking in sail during the night to crawl even slower, while the frigates dashed ahead and dashed back to report what little they saw, stirring about like cockroaches scuttling around a parade of snails.